


The Moth in the Dark

by CommanderSpork



Category: Black Sails
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings, emotionally constipated shits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 08:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderSpork/pseuds/CommanderSpork
Summary: After losing Madi, John gets himself drunk in front of everyone. Flint is fetched to put him to bed. One of them is more ignorant than the other. Set during 4x07.





	The Moth in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this directly after the episode came out. Considering how the show played out, this probably works best as a one shot/missing scene. Happy reading!
> 
> Find me on tumblr as thisshipwillyetsail ;)

There he sat, hunched over the table, with a bottle nearby and everyone else at a distance. He was propped up on one shaky arm. That was all that was keeping him from having his upper body splayed out over the table. Once his arm would give out, he would lay there drooling, perhaps vomit, perhaps pass out. And yet even in this state, especially in this state, no one would touch him. Though someone really ought to put an end to this spectacle.

Flint had promised his friend to protect him, to help him get through this. And he already blamed himself for not having seen this coming, so that he might have let it take place where it could be controlled : behind closed doors. His instinct was to bark at the witnesses to get the fuck out. He didn’t. Instead, he wrapped a gentle hand around the man’s shoulder.

“John,” he said softly. It sounded like a breathy prayer, meant to penetrate the hazy barrier between here and the other realm. Flint had said his friend’s name the way a man would mutter ‘God’ when he bears witness to a particularly gruesome display.

John Silver’s head moved ever so slightly, as if he could barely register he was spoken to. The motion made one of the curly strands of his mane pull tight. It was trapped under Flint’s hand. Flint reached out and lifted the bottle. He shook it to check its contents. Nearly empty.

“Captain,” the whispered recognition finally came. With the recent shift in power dynamics, the word had hardly left Silver’s mouth of late. It brought a faint smile to Flint’s lips to know Silver did still think of him that way.

Flint closed the distance between them, arching his body over John’s protectively. He felt the warmth radiating off of Silver’s body, reaching out to his own.

“I’m going to take you to your hut,” Flint whispered, close to Silver’s ear so no one else could hear. “Can you walk? I think it would be better if the others don’t see me carry you out of here.”

John Silver’s unfocused eyes dragged themselves over the crowd that stood at a small distance, pretending not to look at what was going on with the supposed pirate king. John’s hands found the surface of the table, and attempted to push to make his body get up. Flint’s hands wove themselves under his arms and helped him raise his weight.

John swayed. Flint firmly grabbed the fabric of his shirt, guided John’s hand to his own shoulder. This, they could do, Flint knew. Gently trailing his hand on Flint’s shoulder, that was something John had done before, something others had witnessed before.

“Come on,” Flint muttered.

Leaning on Flint and the crutch, John managed to hop himself away from the tables. Tables that were makeshift of wood and rope, or carried out from the ships. They stood collected in the middle of the camp to create something between a town square and a tavern. A place all too public for the figure-head of the revolution to lose his marbles. A place equally too public for an apparent fall-out to occur between the two of them – because John was drunk and upset and _he wasn’t some goddamn cripple who couldn’t walk on his own, excuse you_. So Flint only let John lean on him as much as he chose to himself, and prayed that would suffice to keep John from tumbling to the ground.

They had but a short distance to cross, but it felt as twice as long. Something about people staring at you when you really don’t want them to tends to create that illusion. The spectators tried to appear disinterested of course. The hitches in their conversations and eyes that snapped in another direction right when looked upon gave them away regardless.

Finally, they reached the anonymous darkness between the huts, and Flint slipped an arm around Silver’s waist. He didn’t trust John wouldn’t end up in the mud without the additional support. Not a moment too soon, for John appeared to have lost his footing and crashed into Flint’s side. A graceless breath was knocked out of Flint. Steadying them both, the sensation of another body plastered to his took hold in Flint. Before it could be stopped, it brought back a memory. Thomas and him walking the streets of London. Happy. Celebrating a break-through in Thomas’ plans for Nassau. A far way from being sober, the both of them. They had their arms wrapped around each other and were singing sea shanties – which they believed they’d surely be singing together _when_ they boarded their flagship to New Providence Island.  To any passerby they’d look just like two drunk mates having fun. Then Thomas grew particularly bold and pinched his ass.

 _This,_ with John, did not compare at all to that. Though he could not quite deny he found it comforting to have John so close. If only the circumstances weren’t so miserable.

Silver mumbled something unintelligible, before rubbing his face into Flint’s shoulder. Flint dropped his eyes to point of contact, and their pace slowed. John’s eyes met his for a moment, after which John lifted his head back up and they walked on.

“You’re… good,” John trailed.

Flint let the words hang in the air as they ascended the stairs. Drunk man’s talk. Nothing to mind. John’s crutch knocked on the wooden planks of the upper layer of the maroon camp. Though for some steps, it was absent, as John dragged the thing more than lifted it. In those moments, John was leaning on Flint with his full weight.

They passed by a maroon girl with a sweet face. She smiled at them as she stepped out of the way. Flint would have rather she had not been there. The presence of another person shattering the intimacy of the situation. Although John’s fingers were still flexing and dragging over his shoulder, clutching at his shirt, searching a better grip from moment to moment.

“Here. This one,” Flint announced at one of the huts, turning the both of them towards its door. John looked at it with absent-minded surprise, as if someone just told him he was looking upon at a real-life mermaid. By himself, he would have likely wandered on, not recognizing this hut as his. Flint didn’t blame him. Only after his return had his things been moved here, as he had no longer wanted to stay in the place he had shared with Madi.

They entered. The door fell closed behind them. John’s bones turned to liquid, and Flint struggled to catch him properly and keep the both of them upright. The crutch dropped to the floor.

“Easy,” Flint said as he tried to steady John on his leg again. This proved an impossibility. Thus, he adapted his plan and he tried to move his friend to the bed. An aspiration not much easier than the first. It was like a bizarre dance, holding a limp John Silver in his arms, while trying to move his feet around the man’s body toward the bed. But, like proper dance, it even ended with a dip backward: Flint lowering John further and further until he could softly fall onto the mattress.

Flint raised himself back up, and looked down, uncertain how to proceed. As a captain, he was tasked with the responsibility to look after people – but that was always at a distance, in an abstract sort of way: Do they have enough food? Do they know how to survive a fight? The last time he had cared for anybody, it had been when Miranda was still alive, and she had always been so adapt at holding her own. (Although he had accepted John was stashed in his cabin after losing his leg –it indeed being the most likely place for him not to be disturbed in his rest – Flint had had no mind to take care of him. He barely even paid mind to who did, being lost within himself as he was then.)

Flint opted to attempt to make John comfortable. Take care of the things he always neglected to do for himself when his grief had overruled everything. He found a jug with clean water and poured John a cup. Crouching near the bed and he slipped his hand behind John’s head. With the other he brought the cup to John’s mouth.

“Drink,” Flint instructed. He patiently continued until John had drank it empty. Blue eyes were fixed on him the entire time, with a clarity that shouldn’t have been possible in John’s state of insobriety.

A dark part of his mind screamed at Flint to take his hands away from this man immediately. Flee to his own hut, to the woods, to his ship and sail it away from here! Far, far away. To a place where the biting cold would chill him to the bone. And then freeze him like a statue with marred skin strung over it.

But the dark part of his mind was now but weak, and thus ignored. Instead, Flint’s fingers plowed through John’s ebony curls and slipped free the leather strap that bound some of them together. It was placed on the nightstand, next to the cup. Flint placed it there with such care not to drop it or brush it to the floor, it could believably have been an expensive and delicate piece of jewelry, instead of a easily replaceable leather strap.

John’s wet lips stretched into a smile. A spare drop of water trickled down over his chin, disappearing after leaving a wet path over his throat. Flint lowered his eyes as he saw it happening.

Moving to the other side of the bed, Flint lightly gripped John’s calve. With his other hand he pulled on the heel of the boot to make it come free. He placed it aside and moved John’s full leg to the center of the bed.

Flint was aware of John’s eyes on him as he went to unbuckle John’s belt. It was still laden with pistol and knife. The two flaps of tough leather left each other like lovers breaking an embrace. With an object on either side, it would be impossible to pull the belt from underneath John. Unaware he was doing it, Flint scratched his beard. He took a breath a little deeper than the others, and then brought his hand over John’s hip. With a light press of his fingers in the soft flesh that lay beyond, he urged John to arch his back enough so the belt could be pulled free.

He took the belt to the other end of the room and draped it over the sole chair. He poured another cup of water and placed it on the nightstand. Tentatively, he looked at John’s face. It was glazed with sweat, but he looked somehow content. It was a welcome break from the blue mask with red stained eyes he’d been wearing. Even though it was likely only because of the quantify of alcohol he’d consumed.

Flint supposed his duty was done. He could leave. All there was left now was for John to sleep it off, and Flint could not assist with that. It did not feel right to just turn his back and leave, however, so he fumbled to find the right words to say. To give as a parting gift.

“I’m…,” John began.

Flint looked up eagerly, hoping John would provide the answer. Hoping that even drunk, the man’s way with words would pull through.

“I’m… too warm,” John mumbled.

“Oh,” Flint said.

“I want this… off,” John said. He flopped his leg a little. His arms twitched, as if he wanted to use them to pull off the offending article of clothing, but no longer had the strength to do it.

Flint drew nearer, but did not move to touch his friend. “What?” he all but squeaked.

“This,” John repeated. He thrusted his hips up a little, and pulled a sour face as if annoyed Flint didn’t immediately grasp his meaning.

Flint wanted to say the heat could not be helped, that it was an integral part of the island. Wanted to pretend he had not understood ,and just leave. Wanted to do anything else but what he was asked. Yet, he did see the sweat trickle over his friend’s face, and he had heard the request. He could not abandon John like this. Flint’s hands moved without his mind ever signing off on the order. They popped the first button, and then the next, and the next, and finally the last one. Fingers slipped behind the hem on both sides. Trapped between the rougher fabric of the trousers, and the softer fabric of John’s shirt. They found their grip, and pulled. The trousers slid down a few centimeters, but then stagnated as they were caught by John’s weight.

Raising his eyes, Flint silently implored John to lift himself off the bed, _just like before_. John’s foot found purchase on the bed, but he could not get himself up. So, Flint carefully slipped an arm under John’s lower back and lifted him. He pulled the trousers further, and further down,  revealing more skin as they went, until they came off. The dark brown fabric of his shirt covered John till about mid-thigh. Flint let the air he was holding in roll out of him like crashing waves on a beach.

John gasped as the breeches came off. A relieve- to-be-freed-of-the-constricting-heat gasp, of course. But definitely not the sound Flint needed to hear when pulling off another man’s pants. He hoped the hot flash he felt didn’t mean he was blushing. And if he were, he  hoped the room was dark enough it didn’t show.

When he cast his eyes down to check if Silver had noticed anything, he found Silver looking at him expectantly. The old familiar creases came back to Flint’s face. Especially the two on his nasal bridge, right between his eyebrows.

“What?” he asked, a little bit more bark in his voice than strictly necessary.

“This,” John said, as uncoordinated fingers failed to pluck at his own shirt. “This too.”

“John…,” Flint warned him. Though nothing about it was stern. It rather resembled the kindness of a priest who truly loved the people of his town, the plea of a soldier too exhausted to fight.

Again, John helplessly tried to tug. He struggled to sit up, but only managed to move himself over the bed a little.

“Captain… Flint…,” John pled. “I feel like I’m being burned alive… Please.”

And there it was, during all of their acquaintance, no matter how great the stakes or how desperate the situation, John had never said please to him before.

Flint decided that it would be best to do it as unceremoniously as possible. Quick and easy. So he scooped John off the bed. He grabbed the shirt by its collar and started pulling. To get it to come off all the way he needed to hug John nearly to his chest, but by some miracle the man’s arms did not get caught in the fabric, and off it was. Flint put it on the chair next to the belt. Turning his back to the room.

He was strict with himself not to afford even a single glance at the newly exposed flesh. He would not intrude on his friend like that. So when he turned around, he stood straight, with his arms folded behind his back and his gaze on eternity – which in this instance was a speck on the wall.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked. In his mind those words were already followed by: _Alright. Then I will see you in the morning. Now go on, and rest._ Strange how that what had been so hard to find before, now came so easily to him.

"Yes,” John said.

Captain Flint was rising in him again. Had he not been so afraid of what might happen if he did, he would have torn his eyes off the wall and glared at John. The way he’d glared at him when the little shit had announced he believed the plan to take the man-o’-war to be a hoax that would allow them to run away together. Yes, both situations much the same in how John’s ignorance could not be afforded.

“There’s a cream, for my, eh, leg,” John continued.

Flint sighed. “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

John blinked his eyes rapidly, and his foggy mind seemed to clear a little. His speech a bit more coherent after that.

“No, it’s… I need to apply it every day. If it’s not done now, it will itch and tingle tomorrow.”

Flint lowered his eyes a little to find John’s face. John didn’t like talking about his leg. Liked it even less to admit how it could bother him. So Flint gave in once more.

“Where is it?”

“The chest.”

Over by the chair there was a sea chest with John’s belongings. Flint went over to it, and opened it hesitantly. Out at sea, very little privacy existed, and chests such as these usually contained the whole of what was left of a man’s private life. There was a certain disinclination, a certain breech in conduct, to rummage through these. Although, John had given Flint permission, and so, Flint argued to himself, it should be alright.

Flint swallowed as the first things he saw were clearly items that had belonged to Madi. The long dark-red necklace she had worn before the war. A piece of cloth she had wrapped around herself when cold. A ring that was too small for John’s fingers. Flint remembered when he had come back to Miranda’s house after she was gone. Seen her things. He also remembered finding the cups broken on the floor after it had become a pirate base.  Flint carefully pushed Madi’s belongings aside. He then brushed past some of John’s personal things: a change of clothes, some spare jewelry, a few coins of Spanish make. Then, he found the jar.

He went back to the bed, to the human being that was awaiting his return. Already knowing what was expected of him, he dropped to his knees. Gentle hands sought out where John’s left leg ended. Although the remainder of John’s legs were dusted in occasional black hairs (Flint knew by flicking his glance to John’s right leg), around the stump, no hair dared to grow.

Flint rubbed the cream in with what he hoped were soothing circles, but stopped abruptly as he heard John hiss. By reflex he looked up. And in doing so, it could no longer be avoided. To his vision was presented an expanse of gleaming flesh. Each muscle swollen and hardened from labor and fight. Of course, this should not come as a surprise to Flint, but he hadn’t been afforded many displays of it. Not since John had stayed in his cabin immediately after the injury, anyway. Flint felt a dread coming over him as he couldn’t prevent his eyes from wandering further, from seeking _that part_ of John out. It lay flaccid to the side, innocently resting against John’s leg. Its base was adorned with short black curls, which drew together in a path that climbed a few centimeters up his body.

Closing his eyes and chastising himself for his indiscretions, Flint took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he kept them drilled to John’s face.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” John answered. His face wasn’t pained, instead his mouth was open and his eyes wide. Wide with the lower lids pulled tight just the littlest bit. Flint had seen this look on John before, but he couldn’t quite recall when.

“That was just… a sensitive spot.”

“Sorry,” Flint offered, and concentrated on applying cream to the remainder of the affected flesh. “Is this enough?” he asked after a while.

“Yeah,” John responded.

The jar with the cream was placed on the nightstand with the other items. All of them together starting to make a small exhibition of John Silver: The Man Behind The Myth. Although, at that moment, Flint would have rather chosen the myth.

He disentangled himself from the proximity, the intimacy that had gone beyond walking closely together in the dark. He stood straight, and was determined to leave this time. However, the words were out of his mouth before he had even thought them.

“Anything else?”

“Just one more thing,” John said. In his voice it could be heard he was grateful. That was something at least. Something to make it worth this intrusion.

“Yes?” Flint enquired.

“If you would prop up the pillow just the littlest bit?”

Flint bowed down over John, and reached behind him. And that’s when it happened. Like a snake jumping out of the grass to snatch its prey, John’s hand shot out to snatch the front of Flint’s shirt. And pulled. Unprepared for such an attack, Flint toppled forward, landing fully on top of John Silver.

“Well, hello, Captain,” John purred.

And John’s leg pressed insistently forward, between Flint’s. An invasion to Flint’s privacy that could not even be compared to rummaging through someone’s chest, or even stealing glances of someone’s naked form. Flint hoped that John was too far gone to notice the evidence that was to be found there. Too intoxicated to remember it in the morning.

Flint wanted to pull away, wanted to get up, but as soon as he instigated the movement, John snaked an arm around him and held him near. An arm that was surprisingly capable now.

“John…,” Flint shuddered. Another warning. Or a plea?

John’s hand cupped Flint’s cheek. Flint wanted to snatch his face away, but he was too weak. He had been fighting a fight for too long, and it was wearing him out.

“James,” John whispered.

And that, that odd combination of sounds that had at some point been decided to be meaningful, turned Flint’s insides to mush. It made him look up at John as if his life depended on it. As if he had a noose around his neck and John was the only one who could cut the rope once the lever was pulled. And in John’s face he saw love, such love. But it couldn’t be, his lever would be pulled. The noose would pull tight and with bulging eyes and flapping tongue he would come to his end.

“I got pissed in front of everyone,” John continued. “But none of them would go near me. Instead they got you to come pick me up. What do you think that says about us?”

 _Us_. There had been an us between them for a while now. The sort of us that says ‘what do we wanna do about that?’, the sort of us that says ‘our men’. Not the sort of us that lies on top of each other in a bed, with an unacceptable lack of clothes on at least one party. But John was right, some of their men had come to get Flint to take John to his hut. And now here they were.

“Make love to me,” John said.

Flint felt the ground dropping out from under him. He was falling free into a great darkness. Holding John in his arms and falling. A pit, but not a bottomless one, and soon enough the floor would come and they would be crushed. Together.

“John, you’re drunk,” Flint pointed out. It would be good to pin it on that. That way it could be forgotten, forgiven. They could pretend tomorrow, and all the days after, that nothing of significance had occurred between them here, and they could continue to act normal. Nothing would be changed.

And John laughed. He laughed? Why did he laugh?

“I am not as drunk as you think,” he said, voice steady now. “The bottle was already nearly done for when I started on it.” His hand came up and picked up one of Flint’s from where it was still grasping at the pillow. He turned it around and Flint’s fingers snaked themselves in place around and between the sweet warmth.

Flint looked at it with a certain astonishment, as if a beautiful sort of trickery he could not quite understand was occurring right in front of him. Yet, his hand knew what to do, needed no command. As if this one act was all it was ever meant to do. And when roughened palm was wrapped in roughened palm, John cradled both their hands to his chest.

“But had I not overplayed my inebriety a bit,” Silver continued, almost smugly, “do you believe you would have wrapped your arm around me in the dark? Would you have undressed me with such care? Would we have ended in this bed together, holding hands?”

“No,” Flint answered in a shuddering breath. Could John Silver have orchestrated this all? Of course he could have orchestrated it. This was the man who took the treasure in its original quantity from under him, and eluded his awareness of it. This was the man who had risen to such vital importance with words and theatrics. This man who _did_ the impossible, not just wanted to do it. Flint’s hand found itself tangled in John’s hair now.

“I want this, James.” The leg pressed between his thighs giving Flint a small nudge. “And I know you want this too. Don’t be afraid. I am not afraid. Not anymore.”

John Silver’s hands were sliding over his back. Such a loving caress. Something Flint would never have thought him capable of when they had met all those months ago. The hands found themselves a way to Flint’s shoulders and squeezed. Pushed and pulled.

And with a jagged motion Flint moved his head forward, so that his lips may meet John’s. And right at that moment, he was doing the impossible too. A great force was trying to hold him back. It was not just the fear that John was just asking for this because he was drunk. The fear that John was trying to do this to quell the pain over Madi’s loss. It was also more than a decade of thinking _never again_. It was also thinking that after Miranda, there would be no one. Resigning in it.

But despite all that, Flint fought his way forward.

Finally, the journey of his mouth ended. And when it found its destination, it did not announce its presence with great force and violence. No, their lips met softly. So gently, that at first they could barely feel each other. Flint lowering his face down so carefully, and John lying in wait so pliantly. Both keeping their eyes locked on the other’s. Pupils blown wide with desire, and love. Love most of all, so much love.

And then, their lips melted together and became the sea. They pushed and pulled and swayed. Like the waves, like the tide. As the kiss deepened, Flint began to taste the lingering sweet spicy taste of the rum. A burning heat rolled through his body, as if he was consuming the liquor himself. John’s breath hitched, as if he peered into Flint’s mind and saw there what he was doing to Flint.

At last, Flint’s hands began to roam. They rounded strong biceps, hard shoulders, and then went down over John’s sides. Flint gasped, breaking the kiss, and followed with his gaze the miracle wherever it went. He was allowed to do this now! To feel this man, to love this man. His hands caught on to hipbones, and there he found purchase to stretch himself over John properly. In his new position, he ground them together with a few thrusts. They were not cautious, but they were not rough either. They were experimental, sweet. A way for the both of them to have a sample of what was about to come.

John began tugging at Flint’s shirt, so Flint lifted himself up a little to take it off. He began pulling it up, but couldn’t get it free of his breeches, leaving him with the fabric heaved halfway over his head.

John laughed a laugh that was more stuttering breaths than anything else, before slipping his fingers to the fastenings of Flint’s pants. As these came open, the shirt came free, and Flint tossed it to the floor.

John touched Flint’s chest. Letting the ginger hairs slide through his fingers. He looked up. There it was again, the open mouth, and the big eyes with just the littlest tension in the lower eyelids. Flint remembered then when he had seen that look before. John had that look whenever he was marveling at situation he found himself in, wondering how much further he could push it. Playing with fire, with a certain desire to get burned.

As Flint looked down he found John’s hand tugging at the flap of his pants. _This too_ , he silently insisted. Flint looked at John’s hand with a one-sided smirk, before shimmying out of his breeches.

There were no reservations on John’s behalf to take in all that was there to see. John’s eyes appreciatively took in all the patches of freckles spread over Flint’s body. They found Flint’s small pink nipples, and John brought up a hand to trail it over one of them. He sought out the scars on Flint’s form– the large gash on his chest, and the bullet hole in his shoulder, and the dozens of smaller ones that had come before and after. His gaze went over Flint’s full thighs. And finally, lingered on Flint’s cock, standing firmly from his body. Crowned by a tuft of hair the color of the late afternoon sun, pointing at its object of desire.  John’s fingers grazed it lightly, before withdrawing. Flint felt vulnerable. Like a god who had taken on human form, being inspected by a worshiper that could now just as soon kill him.

But it appeared John liked what he saw. He brought Flint’s hand up to his mouth, and kissed the knuckles. The little hairs of his beard tickling Flint’s skin. Flint chased his hand to have John’s mouth once more. This time John welcomed him in fully. Their tongues glided over each other, and at the same time, bare skin pressed against bare skin for the first time. A deep throaty moan escaped Flint when their cocks brushed against each other. John hitched, while boring his eyes into Flint’s. They were being swallowed by warm fluid. Passed into another world. A place where one could float forever in perfect harmony and peace, feeling fulfilled in every possible way.

Flint started trailing kisses down John’s neck, over his collarbone, toward a nipple. His tongue brushed past his lips and swirled the little piece of taut flesh. Rubbed his beard on the less sensitive skin just below it. John moaned and threw his head back. Flint grinned and snaked his hand between them, seeking John’s cock and taking it in his hand. It wasn’t fully erect yet, but as he stroked it with his thumb outstretched over its underside, it grew rapidly. Soon, John was rolling his hips, wordlessly asking for more.

Their eyes met and Flint kissed John again. It wasn’t necessary for Flint to ask if John had ever done this before. Many nights ago, before John and Madi had quite found each other, John had offered that information voluntarily. They had been around a fire, surrounded by trees and darkness – not unlike the time when Flint had first told John about Thomas. They were warm, and comfortable. And then John had said it: ‘You know, I have never.’

Not realizing the sort of direction the conversation had taken, Flint had asked him to clarify.

‘With a man,’ John had answered.

They had stared at each other, and something had passed through the air. Making it crackle. Then too, John had looked at him with that look, that daring look, asking to be burned. Pleasantly scorched by the fire.

 ‘Oh,’ Flint had responded, and the silence and the stares to the bedding of leaves on the floor had made the moment go away. If only one of them had had more courage then.

Shifting his hand to get a proper grip, Flint began stroking John’s cock. John’s breaths were deep but quick, and his eyes closed temporarily as his face lolled to the side.

“Oh,” he breathed.

At this Flint’s heart melted, and his hand went to cup John’s face. This brought the other back to attention. Fierce blue eyes pierced Flint’s soul. Threw hooks to it, and pulled it near to whisper: this is mine now.

John’s hands dragged over Flint’s back. Slowly – leisurely, if not for the tension in them – with spread fingers. They strayed from their journey twice to finger a vertebra. Finally, the fingers met up with each other and laced together before the globes of Flint’s ass. They rested there for a few moments, before they, very tentatively, very lightly, rounded Flint’s buttocks. Once they had acquainted themselves with the experience, however, they gripped more firmly. They squeezed and pulled. Demonstrating a true hunger for this.

“Fuck,” Flint gasped.

“Do you want to…?” John trailed.

“No, not now. Too messy,” Flint panted. Then hastily added, a glimmer of uncertainty passing through him: “Unless you really wanted to?”

“No,” John admitted.

“Good,” Flint affirmed. He kissed John again before taking him by the wrist. He guided John’s hand between their bodies. Urged it to wrap around his cock.

“A little tighter,” Flint instructed. “And then squeeze at… Yes, like that.”

“This is… Fuck, this is good,” John muttered, before trading in speech for groans and moans and little huffs of breath.

And Flint too joined this serenade of passion, feeling no shame to let John know he enjoyed this. John had this wonderful twist in his stroke, and Flint was losing control quickly. Bucking his hips and fucking John’s hand eagerly. The pleasure made his eyelids heavy, but he resisted the urge to close his eyes. He kept them trimmed on Silver, like he had every moment since he’d received his permission. The thought of shutting all this out was simply too frightful. What if he would close his eyes, only to open them again to find that all of this had been some elaborate day dream? Some hallucination? A figment of his maddened imagination, slipping  away before he had had a chance to say goodbye? No. Not being able to say goodbye already was too much of a cruel routine in his life. All those he loved torn from him so violently, so suddenly. No, if he was to go mad, he was going to keep his feverish vision in his arms until the very last moment.

Though, there was hope he was not making this up. For he didn’t believe he could imagine John’s hand on his ass feeling so good. The way his fingers followed the curves inward, but shied away before really committing. Exploring the shores, but never the interior.

Flint took his hand off of John’s cock and held the palm out in front of John’s mouth.

“Lick it,” he instructed.

John stuck out his tongue and dragged it over hardened skin, leaving a wet trail. Flint pushed himself up on one arm _to look_ as he wrapped his palm around John’s cock once more. The sight  of what was transpiring between them sent such a jolt through him, his arm wobbled and he nearly toppled right back down. Not a moment had he lost the sensation of Silver’s hand on him. Silver’s hand with its rough skin and its rings. Though, the sight of it was even better. To see that hand, and knowing it through and through. Every scar and every vein. To see that hand being connect to an arm, and that arm to a body, and that body being a man he had secretly desired and loved for even longer than he could quite say.

Equally beautiful the sight of own hand providing Silver pleasure, and Silver accepting it so willingly. And also, of course, Silver’s beauty. The way his strong muscles had turned his stomach and chest into a sloping landscape. How legs and crotch came with due black hairs, but how he was hairless between there and his throat. The way he was tanned all over. (Was there a secret part of the island, where John went to bathe in the sun with no clothes on?) And right at that moment, the way his balls were drawn up tight and full.

Flint reached out and took them carefully in his hand. Rolled them gently. It drew a moan from John, deeper than the others. This one originating from the caverns of his chest. It made Flint feel a little bolder. And so, he slipped his fingers behind John’s balls and rubbed John’s perineum. John gasped. Screwed his eyes shut tightly in obvious pleasure.

“Again,” he begged, angling his hips up to provide better access.

More than eager, Flint obeyed. He massaged the particular area of flesh, just as he had known to do in the past. Drawing the memories of it up effortlessly, despite his efforts to forget for so long. John became ever more wanton, came ever quicker apart. The sight of John so eager for him,  so aroused because of him, put Flint right on the edge.The urgency rose up in his belly, his cock, his balls, until he was wildly slamming himself in John’s welcoming fist. He buried his face in John’s shoulder, and John cradled his head. And then he came, with hot pulsing strokes. Groaning loudly as the jolt crashed through him. He stilled, a fear gripping him: What if this was the moment John decided he didn’t want this after all? What if the sensation of another man’s cum on him grossed him out? Their partnership would grow cold, and come apart altogether soon after.

Flint sneaked a glance sideways. He caught John’s eyes, and oh, was he far gone.

"C’mere,” John struggled to say. “I wann’kiss you when I come.”

The words had barely traveled through the air, before Flint had crashed his mouth into John’s. John wrapped his hands around Flint’s back and pulled him close. So very close. As if the intend was to melt the both of them together. The closeness made it difficult and awkward to flick his wrist to give John the right pace, but it was no matter. It was already done. John was coming. Flint felt the hot sticky liquid catch on his hand, and on his body, and John’s body, where it mingled with his own seed and was then smeared onto his body again.

That particular experience, that had been so long ago. He hadn’t known it since Thomas. Of most of the other things, there had been imitations one way or another. Miranda, Gates, Eleanor, Silver, Madi. All of them, so far, had provided some intimacy of the mind or the flesh that had neutralized a feeling. Had made it something that belonged to no one. But this particular sensation, that still belonged to Thomas.

Flint’s eyes were watering up, the muscles in his face were twisting. Flint felt it coming. He wanted to stop it, but he couldn’t.

And once it had broken through, there was no controlling it. Flint started crying. Tears like the unforgiving rain of a storm at sea, drumming down harshly, soaking anything that had been so cherished for being dry. He starting sobbing, body shocking and going limp on top of Silver. Years of suppressed grief were coming right to the surface.

 _The worst possible moment_ , he realized. How selfish of him to cry over a lost lover right on top of someone whose loss was so much more recent. He tightened his muscles to pull himself up and get away. Get out of the hut as fast as possible. Naked if he had to. Strong arms stopped him, refused to let him go. And thus there he lay, a lightly shocking heap of useless flesh.

 

***

 

“Does it still hurt that much?” Silver’s voice was impossibly small. “After all those years?”

Flint turned his face up toward Silver. He wanted to avoid looking at him, to stay in the silence that had shrouded over them like a blanket, but at the very least he owed him an explanation. Awkwardly, he tried to reposition his left arm so it wouldn’t be trapped underneath himself, nor captured between them at an unhuman angle.

“No,” he said thoughtfully, still following the threats of his feelings to see if there was a dead, stinking thing at the end of them. “I…”

Silver was looking back at him, from above the barrier formed by his arm and chest. Flint could see the urgency in his eyes, could see how the entirety of John Silver’s world had drawn in to this point. It was obvious that Flint was supposed to give him some sort of reassurance. His soul was pulling on the threats faster and faster, while they were slipping away with an even greater speed. His body was uncomfortable with being curled up into Silver’s side. He needed to be on more equal footing, and so he awkwardly struggled himself free from the bed and dragged himself upward until his eyes were level with Silver’s. And then came the calm. With one last tug, his heart came tumbling into his arms, and though scarred, it was most definitely alive and beating.

“No,” he said, more firmly this time. “A thing such as the loss of someone so dear, you will never forget. We look kindly upon those who are dead. As they are no more, they cannot do anything to diminish our love for them. And so, that love will be forever. Nevertheless, impossible as it seems at first, life goes on. It doesn’t wait for you, it just… keeps flowing. And so, part by part, experiences, places, gestures that belonged to them, come to belong to others. Until the number of things that are still theirs, is reduced to keepsakes to cherish. And then, you will find, you can be alright.”

Harshly, John stared up at the ceiling as he thought it over for a moment. His eyes watered, but didn’t spill. Then, he closed them for a decade. When he opened them again, they were clear, and they sought Flint out.

“But why then…? Did you…? Just now?” Each consecutive question an equally vague clarification of the former. Though Flint did catch their meaning.

“I haven’t.”

“Haven’t? But what about Miranda?”

Flint spoke to Silver silently, hoping to convey what he could imagine no words explaining. _That’s different_ , wouldn’t do her any justice.

Silver appeared to catch on, but his brow furrowed. “You haven’t? Not ever?” he asked, incredulity rising in his voice.  And then he dealt with his confusion in his most characteristic way – by quashing it with a stream of words. “Didn’t anyone approach you? Why didn’t you go to a brothel? I know some of them have boys. Why didn’t you look among the crew? I could point you out several men who would be willing.”

“I didn’t want to,” Flint whispered. “It would have felt treacherous.”

John brought his hand up to cup Flint’s face, dragged his thumb through Flint’s beard.

“Thirteen years, James,” John whispered in return. His mouth falling open again. He was marveling this time. “And then after all this time, you choose me.” John looked up and drew Flint nearer.

Flint went willingly to receive a relaxed and pliant kiss. When it broke, he hoovered over Silver for a moment and smiled faintly. Then he drew back to lay beside him again.

“Which men?” he asked after a moment.

“Ashby, Hertford, Smith – you know the one with the tattoo – and that kid we recently took on, Edmund. Edmund Townsend.”

Flint huffed. “You’re making this up.”

“No, am not!” John protested. His eyes trailed over the ceiling for a moment, then he started laughing.

“What?”

"Thinking about it, before you crushed his hopes and his dreams, Billy might even…”

“I didn’t crush his hopes and his dreams,” Flint snapped. He stopped, realizing what John had just said, and laughed. “Don’t be whimsical. Not even blind and drunk he would have.”

“No, no, he would,” John assured, laughing, poking Flint in his stomach. “I saw the way he looked at you, way back. Besides, in all the time I’ve known him, to my best awareness, he has never been with a woman.”

Flint slapped John’s hand away. “Stop this,” he said, but with all the conviction of dried seaweed.

“He was so eager to please back then,” John continued to tease. He squeezed and he pushed, trying to get a rise out of Flint, still laughing. “If you and Gates would have told him that’s what it would take for him to be A Most Valued Member of the crew, you could have fed him your cock every night!”

“Shut up,” Flint said.

Fueled by John’s mentioning of Hal Gates, and John’s attempt to nib Flint’s chest, Flint surged forward. He intended to catch John’s wrists and restrain them, pin him to the bed. What Flint didn’t expect was for John to fight back. They got caught in a playful struggle, where knees and elbows knocked, hands grabbed, fists pushed and legs kicked – but never with enough force to actually hurt.

Suddenly, John held still. For an instant, Flint was confused, but as he found himself with both his arms slipped around John, their chests pressed close together, and their legs lazily entangled, he was more than willing to yield.

John absent-mindedly traced his finger through the hairs on Flint’s chest. “So let’s talk about the preparations we need to make for our next move,” John suggested, yawning.

Flint eyed his companion for a moment, and then began listing the things they would need to tend to.  Slowly, John’s eyelids began to dip farther and farther, like the sun sinking into the sea. A few times, they closed entirely. However, when Flint stopped, John would urge him to go on. First with words, and later with encouraging sounds, until his breath deepened and finally, he had fallen asleep.

Taking note, Flint did not dare move. Did not want to, lest he’d wake the treasure sleeping in his arms. For a while, he watched John sleep. He could not find sleep himself. The cogs of his mind were churning, whirring too loudly to allow that.

Tomorrow was not going to be a good day. He knew how tragedy worked when the wounds were so fresh. In order to afford a good moment, strength, such as John had enjoyed tonight, the monster would lash out with additional viciousness soon after.

John had given Flint so much. First, he had given Flint life – saving him from his darkest instincts more than once. Then, he had given Flint light – there had been times where killing unarmed families, condemning defenseless people, and leaving behind those too weak to get themselves out were entirely acceptable actions to him. Not anymore. And now, tonight, John had given him love – showing him a body was not just a power source for a weapon, a thing to be worked hard so it can be used to bring about some elusive goal. And for all that, Flint felt he was in the man’s debt in ways he could not quite pay off.  

So he refused to rest until he had thought of all that could happen tomorrow. Had contrived all the things he could say or do to make John feel better. He had promised this man he was going to pull him through this, and he was.

 


End file.
